


Stop Pretending

by Hikari_no_Chibi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2019, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2019 (Once Upon a Time)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21896581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_no_Chibi/pseuds/Hikari_no_Chibi
Summary: RSS Fic for ShadowedOracle, who prompted: Snowy winter, Fake Relationship AURumple needs a date to his ex-wife's wedding, but there's something he isn't telling the lovely librarian who he picked for the job.
Relationships: Belle & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 18
Kudos: 73





	Stop Pretending

The triple-thick, linen envelope and embossed invitation packet had required two stamps to send, but it weighed on Gold's chest like a vice, taking up disproportionate real estate in his mind. In reality, the RSVP, registry, and event details took up little more space than a postcard when he stacked them all neatly on his desk. Required, the damn thing had said. Required.

As though it wasn't bad enough that Milah was flaunting her toy-boy at a lavish, destination wedding funded (he was certain) almost exclusively through his over-generous alimony and child-support checks, she'd twisted the knife three times more: she'd invited him to a ski lodge, at Christmas time, with a requirement that all guests bring a date. And, of course, there was the obvious implication....

X

Belle French didn't make it a habit to bail her father out of his bad decisions, of which there were plenty, but when he'd doubled his Valentine's Day order of roses instead of paying the rent, she'd felt honor-bound to intervene. It wasn't as though Storybrooke didn't have the demand; she usually had to bite her tongue and try not to shout when her father launched one of his get-rich-quick schemes. But this one was solid. Roses sold well, usually for cash, and especially on a big, romantic holiday. The ROI was nearly 200% if he sold out, and even if he only moved a measly 25%, he could more than break even. She'd told him as much when he laid it all out for her at the end of January. 

What he'd neglected to mention was that this uncommonly sane investment had put him 2 weeks in arrears on his rent. All of his rent - both the business, and his home above it, not to mention the money he still owed on the truck.

"Papa...," Belle tried to keep her tone soft. Shouting wouldn't solve anything.

"Please, Belle," he begged, all sense of pride long since banished from their relationship. "That monster had his thug impound my truck this morning. I'll pay you back every penny after my deliveries tonight."

"Will you?" she questioned sharply. "Because I rent from Gold too, and I know what his late fees look like. How much do you owe him, Papa? Not just for the truck, but for all of it. Will there be anything left for your suppliers, any money in savings to carry us through to the Easter rush?"

"The truck is only $800," said Moe. "That's all I need."

It was more than Belle made in a week.

She tried not to scream. "It doesn't even make sense," Belle muttered. "He won't see a dime of what he's owed if he runs you out of business, and he knows it. The collateral on the truck and the shop is hardly going to make up for..."

"It's Gold," said Moe with a shrug. "The old cripple's nasty for the sake of it. And he hates Valentine's Day."

Belle tried not to roll her eyes. If you believed The Gospel According to Moe, Mr. Gold hated everything from people breathing loudly to (and including) the color of the sky in the morning. But there was no point in arguing about it further; she already had her coat half way on.

"Thank you, my girl," said her father.

"I'm going to see if he'll make a deal, Papa," she said sharply. "And if not, you'll have to figure it out on your own."

"But it's only--"

"I don't have eight hundred dollars, Papa!" Belle snapped, finally raising her voice and feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. "This isn't like you owing fifty bucks to Gaz Beane or a round of drinks to Kieth Reeve. It's a lot of money!"

"But I thought you were doing alright at the Library," said Moe. He didn't sound sorry.

Belle tried not to scream. She'd told him, once, that she made $38,000 annually. To Moe French, that sounded like big money -- a failure in himself to realize that he had nearly $100,000 in business annually because he never saw it all in one place, in one lump. In reality, her salary came out to fifteen hundred every two weeks, and that was before taxes. Besides, Belle had her own rent and student loans to pay on the tiny unit next to the tower -- which, yes, Gold did rent her on behalf of the Mayor's Office at a slightly reduced rate. And yes, her loans would be forgiven after another 3 years of public work, if she got lucky. She was hardly rolling in it.

"This is the last time, Papa."

"You could always move back home if you're struggling, petal," he said more gently.

"Ha! Try again when you're not half an inch away being evicted. I'm going to speak to Gold. You go to the shop and make sure everything you can do without the truck is ready and waiting, because if this doesn't work you're going to need to sell every last bit of baby's breath and ribbon that you have just to keep a roof over your head."

"Well, maybe I can move in here..."

"No," she seethed. "You absolutely can't."

X

Gold felt a familiar pain in his chest when the knocking on his shop's rear door perfectly aligned with the throbbing pulse inside his head.

"We're closed!" he shouted, for all the good it ever did him.

"Mr. Gold?" called a familiar and feminine voice. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I think you know why I'm here."

Gold leaned on his cane more heavily than he liked and leveraged himself out of the low, wooden seat of his workbench. If you asked his accountant, the Mal would probably describe him as an investor. To the Mayor, he served as something of an off-books contract lawyer and notary. To his ex-wife, he was a coward and a chain. To Dove, who had the unique perspective of a hired tough, he was probably little better than a racketeer. To the people of Storybrooke, he was alternately either a landlord or a pawnbroker. But Gold knew himself as a fixer -- a problem solver, of whatever means became necessary.

It was long past time that he fixed matters according to his own needs.

X

The door opened abruptly, nearly over-setting Belle's balance on the precarious wooden step. Why a man who owned what surely amounted to millions in New England real estate and walked with a cane kept a weathered, creaky walk-up to his place of business was anybody's guess.

"Ah, Miss French. Right on time, I see. Come in, dearie."

Belle tried not to let her nerves get the better of her. Something about Gold had always appealed to her in close proximity, but the man was notoriously nasty out in public. Still, they'd had more than a few friendly exchanges in the relative privacy of the Storybrooke Library.

She stepped through his space, brushing inadvertently against his chest. He felt more solid than he looked, and Belle felt a slight heat on her cheeks.

"Mr. Gold," she started badly.

"It's quite alright, Miss French. Take your time."

"I-- My father's truck..."

"Ah, yes," sighed Gold. "The indomitable Moe French, hiding behind his daughter. Are you aware that your father is two weeks late on what he owes me? Some might say that I've already shown him remarkable forbearance. More than he deserves, in any case."

Belle felt her hands ball up into fists. She would not cry. Nine tenths of bravery was just doing the brave thing and hoping that the feeling followed after.

"I am not here to defend my father. He's... troubled."

"He's a spendthrift. And yet for reasons I cannot comprehend, you enable him -- his little knight in shining armor." 

Yeah, right. If only. Belle loved her father, but he definitely thought of her as a pawn in his pig-headed, short-sighted... She had to take a deep breath to calm down, and caught a nose full of Gold's expensive cologne in the mix. She really, really did not need her hormones in the mix today.

Gold shut the door and ushered her inside to sit at a small tea-table he had crammed into one corner of his work space.

"I know as well as you do that you're not going to see a dime of that money if he can't make back what he spent on the roses this weekend. Valentine's Day is like Black Friday for a flower shop," said Belle, crossing her ankles and trying to sit up straight. She didn't have the stature for intimidation, but that had never stopped her from trying.

"Between the truck's collateral and the very nice selection of first editions he put down against a personal loan last year--"

"Those were my mother's books!" Belle gaped. "She left those to me, and they've been missing for -- I mean, I always assumed he had tucked them out-of-sight after a few years of mourning. I wasn't going to force my grieving father to part with... Are you seriously telling me he pawned them to you?"

Gold raised an eyebrow and didn't say anything. Instead, he got up and gave her a moment to compose herself while he turned on the electric kettle and fetched them each a cup of tea. His china was every bit as formal as he was -- you never saw Gold out of a 3-piece suit, so Belle didn't know why she would have expected him to use a mundane mug.

It was almost funny, except of course for the pall her Papa cast over the whole affair. Of course he pawned her inheritance. That was Moe French all over.

"Mr. Gold, I don't have $800 to give you for the keys to that truck," said Belle, taking a bracing sip. "And even if I did, I wouldn't do it. It would just put me in arrears on the first of March. I was hoping that you might see reason -- the inventory belongs to the business. And it is very, very perishable; worth exponentially less than we paid for it on any other day of the year, and utterly worthless to you. I don't have a lot of options here -- I'll do the deliveries on foot if I have to -- and if you can meet us in the middle, I'm sure we can get you the money by the end of the day."

"Miss French... Belle." He looked almost contrite. "Your father owes me more than $50,000, and his pattern of non-payment puts me in a position to collect it now in one lump sum. So unless you intend to turn those roses into solid gold, I'm afraid I really don't have anything to gain by going that route."

Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty. Thousand. And all her mother's books -- what had Papa done? She'd thought... Well, her father certainly hadn't been reading them, but she'd told herself that they must have brought him some measure of comfort. She'd told herself it would be wrong to insist on taking them out of his house, even after they vanished from the shelf.

Physically, Belle could feel herself trembling. Mentally, she didn't have the luxury of a meltdown right now.

"Nothing to gain by going that route," she repeated at a whisper. "Am I to understand that there is another route you'd consider?"

Gold's hand rested gently on top of hers. He looked almost sorry. "You don't have to do this, Belle. You can just go home."

Belle squared her shoulders and clenched her jaw. "You have my mother's books," she said tersely. "And my father... Maybe you wouldn't understand this, but he's my Papa. When it comes to family, you can't... you have to..."

"Yes," whispered Gold. "Blood counts for more than you'd think with me. Even when the price is..." He gestured almost imperceptibly at Belle.

"The price is me?"

Gold blanched and choked on his tea.

"No! No, Christ, not like that!" he sputtered. "You're entirely too young for--"

"I'm twenty six," said Belle on reflex.

"And I am forty five!" he shot back. "And not in the habit of compromising a young lady's virtue, for any amount of money."

Virtue might be putting it a bit strongly, Belle thought wryly. 

"I am aware that you and your father moved here relatively recently--"

"We moved here because my mother died," said Belle, giving him no quarter. "I started college three months later."

"Yes, well, what I mean to say is that you may be unfamiliar with some of the town's old gossip, particularly as it pertains to me," said Gold.

"You know I don't listen to a word those parochial old bats say. Not about me, not about anybody." She'd had some trouble on that front when she moved back home to take over the local library. Apparently, getting drinks at The Rabbit Hole and shooting a round of pool could be a sign of either harlotry or matrimony, depending on who was telling the story. Not counting Will (who didn't count her, rebounding and vulnerable as he'd been during those few weeks), Belle hadn't been on a proper date since her 22nd birthday.

X

God, she wasn't going to make this easy, was she? Bad enough that the only woman he spoke to with any degree of civility was 19 years his junior and staggeringly beautiful, with a family obligation that put her almost within his reach; she just had to be an oddly perceptive free-thinker to boot.

Belle was brilliant, a fact that had not escaped him as they'd discussed this history of the Etruscan Empire, the relative merits of Assyriology vs. Egyptology, and scores of Victorian-Modern topics as related to his research and restoration of antiques. Worse, she'd never asked him for anything. The only times their paths crossed less than pleasantly was when she arrived holding a smell envelope full of cash and bailed-out her n'er do well father's deficits. Belle wasn't the kind of person who took advantage of her good looks or their growing familiarity to get something for nothing, so of course she'd jump straight to the worst possible conclusion while he blundered through his offer.

"Let me assure you that I am not seeking anything tawdry," he said. "And please, if you will let me start from the beginning, I can explain the deal I'm proposing."

X

"So... to sum it up," said Belle, her empty tea cup cradled between her palms. "Your ex-wife has invited you to her couples-only wedding after you've been divorced for more than a decade. And you... want to go for some reason? With me?"

Gold nodded.

"Your role as my escort would be purely fictional. To avoid gossip, we could leave town separately and drive to the Boston airport--"

Belle winced. "Do you mind not referring to me as an escort?" she asked. "It's a little... on the nose, don't you think?"

"I assure you, I have no ulterior motives in that regard. You would have your own room within our suite," he rushed, ever keen to avoid the mention of anything remotely sexual.

"Still, an escort is..."

"Well, what shall I call you then, Miss French?" he asked, running his hands through his hair for what must have been the twentieth time that day.

"You can call me Belle, for a start," she said gently. "And... I don't know, I suppose you would introduce me as your girlfriend?"

"I'm a bit too long in the tooth to be someone's boyfriend, I think," he quipped.

"Well I'm not going to be your fake fiance," she said, setting a hard boundary. "It's unnecessary, even if your ex-wife is the piece of work you make her out to be. You're going to stir the pot enough just by showing up with a younger woman, don't you think?"

"My intention is not to... stir the pot, as you say."

Belle blinked. If the point of this exercise wasn't to show up with a woman half his age as some sort of strange power-play, she had absolutely no idea why they were even having this conversation. Any sane person would, upon receiving a wedding invitation from an ex, for a wedding set to take place the following week, recognize it for what it was: some kind of weird flex or brag on the part of the bride. Or maybe the groom, if he was the jealous type. 

Best case scenario, they got an extra wedding gift. Worst, case... Well, they'd been debating the worst case scenario for the better part of an hour by this point. The ex-Mrs-Gold certainly did not expect him to overnight an RSVP, blackmail a date, and fly half way across the country.

"I really don't know why you want to go so badly," Belle confessed. "If it was just a matter of... I mean, you could have asked me out for lunch and done this properly. But you're talking about excusing a massive debt, and I can't even imagine what the future losses will look like if you let my father re-negotiate. I know I never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Gold, but is it really worth $50,000 just to call her bluff like this? You could send her a new car with a ribbon on it, for that price."

Gold looked on the verge of saying something, but stopped himself. He scowled at her. "You let me worry about that, dearie."

X

If Gold had thought that calling the pretty librarian Belle instead of Miss French was jarring, then he was utterly unprepared for her to start calling him Rum. Rumsfeld was maybe the cruelest name ever settled on a poor, Scottish boy. It sounded English. And a bit gay. The latter of which, as an adult, he found inoffensive and occasionally flattering. As a wee laddie, being chased through the streets by bigger boys who were calling him names, he'd wished to be any other Tom, Jock, or Jamie. 

They only had two days to get ready, but releasing Moe's roses had kept him out of their hair and blessedly busy.

Belle was just so absurdly trusting. She hadn't even asked him to sign anything, and looked surprised when he produced his prearranged contracts from the safe, added minor edits, and offered to call Albert Spencer to give her legal advice.

It was just...

When he'd imagined this, he was sure she would hate him. He'd had a wife who despised him and one (regrettable) partner in the aftermath, briefly united in bitterness. He was good at being disliked. Milah would expect it of him. Their old warmth and ease from long nights spent researching in the stacks had not quite returned, and though he could tell the whole situation made her ill at ease, the actual fact was that Belle had been nothing but helpful in the lead-up to the wedding.

He felt closer to failure in this scheme than ever before, and it was all Belle's fault. She was too nice for him. To him.

Luckily, he had more than enough to distract himself with if they were going to pull this off. They needed a gift, and formal wear, and travel arrangements, and skii gear -- yes, even though Gold would be happy to avoid contact with as much as a single snowflake, he'd be damned if he turned up with anything less than the best for him and Belle. All that, he'd prepared. And there was Belle, adding all the details he never would have concerned himself with. They both needed sunglasses and sunscreen, despite the cold weather and heavy snowfall of February; lip balm made sense, and so did tissues; but he never would have considered acquiring headphones for the plane. Surely a first class airplane ticket included audio devices?

But Gold didn't know. He hated flying.

Belle didn't even expect him to pay her back -- she'd merely shown up with two bags of bits from Clark's Pharmacy, and told him to pack his own shades if he didn't like the ones she picked out with plastic frames.

"Rum, are you sure you don't want a pair of snow boots?" she asked from his room -- his actual bedroom -- where two sets of new luggage had been splayed open across his king-size duvet.

"I'm hardly going to be hitting the slopes," he teased.

"Still, the tread might be better than your shoes if there's ice..."

"Don't worry," he said. "If we forget anything, I'm sure we can buy it in Colorado."

"I'm sure it will be five times as expensive in Colorado," Belle said.

Frankly, Gold thought that was a low-ball estimate. But he could afford it. He could afford her. She came almost cheap, for all that Moe had done to dig himself in too deep; he would have paid more. 

But not that even he, Sir Foot-in-Mouth, would have said any of that to her face.

"Rum, where are you swim trunks?" she asked next.

Gold wasn't sure he'd heard that right.

"Hello? Rum? Swim trunks?" she teased.

"Why the... we're going to the Rockies," he said incredulously. 

"And I'm sure they'll have a spa and hot tubs for the après ski. If it's a big resort, they might even have a pool."

"I wasn't aware you were such an avid fan of the sport," he pouted.

"I'm a librarian," Belle laughed. "I might not ski, but I know how to do research."

And that was how it went. For two days, neither of them stepped into the hostile terrain of why this was happening and focused solely on the how. They made time to meet in throughout of the day, solidifying the details of their fictitious courtship over hamburgers and pancakes, and mostly they stuck to the truth. Belle had wanted to include a detail about them living together, but Gold had flatly refused. 

She didn't want to be his fake fiance (and didn't that sting more than it had any right to); Gold didn't want to fake living together until she had a fake rock on her finger.

Eventually, all that was left was a quick drive down to Boston to board their flight.

X

"Is this really all for us?" Belle whispered, not caring if she sounded like an uncultured voyeur in Rum's impossibly glamorous world. 

From the first class lounge, where they'd been met with amuse-bouche, champagne, and massages in the face of a minor delay due to heavy snow in the Rockies, to their spacious seats that came with an international menu... Well, it was airplane food, and Belle knew what that meant. But she'd never had three glasses of champagne before noon before, and the airline's sushi bento eclipsed anything she'd ever been served in Storybrooke.

She supposed they must have had nice sushi in Australia, but they'd lived in a rural scrub-land of cattle ranches and sheep stations; the first city young Belle French ever saw was not Sydney or Canberra, but the sprawling lights of New York after their immigration papers were approved.

Now, standing in their suite at a five-star lodge outside Aspen, the realities beggared her imagination. Inside and out, the world was crisp and white -- sharp, chill snow tinged with wood smoke in the mountains and breezy, crisp linens with the faint, lingering scent of soap.

"This and more," said Gold. She secretly suspected he had taken a modicum of pleasure in her wide-eyed reactions to it all.

Belle always intended to travel, some day. And she certainly read enough to hold her own in cosmopolitan circles. Art museums, films, ballet, opera... all the trappings of culture she had sampled, her own curiosity driving her to find out what all the fuss was about. And at her core, she was still a girl who preferred a warm blanket, a good book, and a greasy burger. Maybe that was her Papa's legacy.

"Am I missing something?" Rum asked the bell hop who'd ferried in their bags.

"Sir?"

"We are supposed to be in the Presidential Suite. Three bedrooms, two sitting rooms, and three and a half baths as advertised, I believe. Are the doors hidden in the wainscoting?" 

"No, sir, this is the Honeymoon Suite. Mrs. Gold was quite specific with her requests, Sir."

"I beg your pardon?" snarled Gold in a voice Belle had learned meant trouble.

"Mrs. Gold called and updated your reservation, Sir. For a surprise," said the young man, still not quite sensing the land mine under his feet.

"Mrs. Milah Gold?" snapped Rum. 

"Dunno, Sir. Couldn't say."

"Rum," said Belle. "Just calm down, I'm sure it was an honest mist--"

Belle followed him out of the room, apprehensive of the seething, snarling beast. He must have taken some note of her, because there'd been a moment upstairs when she'd feared for the lovely cut-glass tumblers on the wet bar and the delicate tiling of the bathroom wall, and he'd responded favorably to the gentle press of her palm against his chest. All down the hall and toward the lifts, he'd catch a glimpse of her fussing at him, huff, gnash his teeth, and put on a burst of speed to get away from her.

She felt a bit like a baby duck, and didn't like it.

At the lifts, he all but smashed the call button with the gilded handle of his cane, and Belle took a step back.

"I think I'll just wait in the room," she said.

Gold continued to ignore her.

"Rum. Rumsfeld," she tried again.

He glared at her, all in a rage, and then came momentarily to his senses again.

"I said I'm going to wait in the room," Belle repeated. "And I need my key."

He had just enough time to fish the key-card out of his inner suit pocket and thrust it at her before the lift door dinged behind him.

"Don't get too comfortable," he said, more gently than expected. "And please don't worry. I'll have this all sorted out for you."

For her?

X

So. This was how it was going to be. He hadn't even seen his ex-wife yet, and already the terms of war were set. Apparently Milah Gold, the bride to be, had called the hotel as Mrs. Milah Gold -- taking the old name out for one last hurrah -- and had swapped their reservations.

When she and Killian (a name Gold couldn't so much as think without rolling his eyes) had booked the lodge for their wedding venue, their package included four nights in the Honeymoon Suite. Shortly upon receiving his RSVP, she'd called the concierge and made the most of her dual position as Mrs. Gold and the Bride to have them swapped. In addition to being three times larger, The Presidential Suite came with its own butler and complimentary spa services. Only the best for Mrs. Gold!

It made him want to vomit.

But the biggest problem, which could not be corrected through an apologetic hotel manager and an aggressive charge-back when he got home, was the way this all must look to Belle. He'd sworn to respect her, and to keep her safe. Her own room, he'd said, and Gold did not make it a habit of going back on his word -- rare as it was that he gave it in a straightforward, sincere manner.

There were not two rooms left in the lodge. Not even a standard room with two beds.

And he knew -- just knew -- that if he went after Milah in a rage she'd find some way to keep him away for the weekend, and then... and then....

All this time, he'd never given Belle a straight answer about why he needed her to do this. Why he bought her discretion and cooperation by offering her father's entire debt on a silver platter. He could tell her the truth, he was almost certain. And it wasn't like she hadn't signed an NDA as part of their agreement, under advisement of Albert Spencer.

Would she agree to stay if he slept on the floor? Or in the bath? The Nordic wood sofas in the sitting area had heavy fur padding on them, which might not be too bad...

X

"It's fine," Belle whispered for the tenth time that night. The wedding party and guests were meeting in the lounge before supper for a welcome drink and introductions, a prospect that already had Belle's teeth on edge.

And poor Rum. The sleeping situation was doing a real number on him, no matter how many times she told him that they could adapt. It wasn't as though the world would end if they shared a bed! Then again, that might be the dry spell talking. And even Belle had to admit that his show of temper earlier had somewhat cooled her simmering crush on the man.

It was so hard to know what to make of him!

She could not deny that what had led them here was morally gray, to say the least. But on the other hand, she'd done what she could for her father and could say with a clear conscience that if he ended up back in the hole now, well... it was nothing to do with her. Not her college fees (what little he contributed toward them), not their immigration lawyers (thank God for their green cards), and not the cost of keeping her dressed and fed.

Belle gave Rum's arm a gentle squeeze. Apart from being a nervous wreck, he kept whipping his head around the room, looking for someone.

"So which one is Milah?" Belle asked, hoping to distract him for a little while longer. 

"She's not here yet," Rum whispered. "But I think those three couples over there and the two in the corner are with us. I'm pretty sure that's the maid of honor."

"Well if it isn't Rumple-Dumple," said a condescending voice from behind them.

Belle spun on the ball of her foot, ready to spring into action on her three-inch heels, but came up short as she looked into a dark mirror. The woman was middle-aged, with long, curling brown hair and piercing blue eyes. The woman was a little taller than Belle, even in heels, but had a similarly compact build.

"So, is this your future child-bride?" the woman sneered.

"I could ask the same of you," Rum scoffed, nodding at the much younger, intentionally-scruffy looking man who'd opted for a deep v-neck and thin, leather jacket in the dead of winter.

"We aren't engaged," said Belle, a little edge to her voice. "But congratulations to you both. You're Milah, right?"

Milah ignored Belle's proffered handshake. 

"What is she, Rumple, twelve?"

Belle glared, then stepped closer, looping Rum's arm around her waist. "I suppose I ought to be flattered, at my age, if you think I'm so young."

That made Milah do a double take.

"How old are you?" she huffed.

"Thirty seven," Belle lied with her biggest say-cheese smile.

Milah Gold looked absolutely gob-smacked as she dragged her fiance away from them.

"Well she's a lovely piece of work," said Belle, bumping her hip gently against Rum's in a show of solidarity. "Was she always that way?"

"We brought out the worst in each other," confessed Rum. "But that was a particularly unpleasant encounter, yes."

"So tell me again, why are we at this wedding?" asked Belle.

Rumsfeld immediately started pulling away from her.

"Hey, no, come on," Belle rushed, trying to say everything that needed to be said. "Do you want her back, or are we just rubbing our happiness in her nose? Her bridegroom and I are the youngest people in this room by at least a decade... is it about proving you've moved on? I've held off asking as long as I can, but I think I need to know, Rum."

"We are not here for Milah," he said at last, taking back his arm and bringing both hands to rest on the pommel of his cane. "I needed a chance to speak to one of the guests."

"Well which one?" Belle asked, taking a closer look at the room again.

The maid of honor and bridesmaid both had much older husbands following them around; trophy wives, Belle would guess. The trio in the corner looked to be stunningly unhappy, even in their own company, and all of the women had quite obviously had work done. The two pairs at the bar had been handsy when they thought nobody was looking, but with no fidelity for whose hand was wandering where... whatever that was, at least they seemed happy together.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that these were Milah's people. Didn't the groom have any friends or family at his wedding?

"He wouldn't be at the bar," said Gold a bit cryptically.

"Oh," said Belle. "Then why are we here?"

"He likes to ski," Gold added, which was a non sequitur and equally unhelpful. 

"No, I meant why are we at this reception? Do you want to have a drink and stay a while?"

Rum shook his head, eyes sharpening. "No, no, you're right. And they have lit runs on the mountain -- he might still be out on the slopes. Wait here, I'll ask at the front desk."

And just like that, she was alone again.

"Thirty seven, huh?" came a sultry voice at the cusp of her ear shell.

Belle spun around to find Milah's husband -- her future husband -- crowding against her. A quick hunt around the room turned up no trace of the bridal party.

"A lady never tells," Belle answered primly, stepping away from him.

"Aw, c'mon now, lovely, you can tell me... are you on an allowance or hourly? It's supposed to be my Bachelor Party tonight. I could make it worth your while..."

"I can smell the booze on you," Belle hissed. "So I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that to me, and you're going to go back to your wife."

"It'd be a laugh," he persisted. "The old man doesn't have to know. And one day you'll be able to tell people you had a one-night stand with Killian Jones."

"Is that name supposed to mean anything to me?"

"It will once my pilot airs this fall," he bragged. "You're looking at the new lead of Neverland Nights. Sexy Peter Pan -- very taboo, very artsy."

"I think I'll pass," said Belle, trying to slip by him again. She'd never been so happy in her life that Rum had given her the room key -- it was time for a tactical retreat.

It looked for a minute as though Killian would try to follow her, but someone popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and she used his momentary distraction to get a good head start through the lobby.

"Was my date just here?" asked Belle, stopping at the front desk where she knew he wouldn't follow. Too many security cameras. Too many witnesses. Belle had dealt with Gaz and Keith for long enough to know the type, and although she supposed that she was here to piss off the bride, she hadn't agreed to crash the whole wedding. Whatever Milah's sins, she didn't deserve that creep.

"Do you mean Mr. Gold?" asked the concierge.

Belle nodded.

"Ah, yes, Miss. And I do apologize on behalf of the hotel for the mix up in your accommodations--"

"That's... it's not your fault," she pleaded, holding up her hands to get him to stop. "I just really need to find Rumsfeld. He said he was coming up here to ask you about another guest at the hotel."

"I was sorry to disappoint him, but there are no children in permitted at the Hyperion Lodge," said the man. "The venue is strictly adults only."

And then, when Belle was sure she must have spent thirty seconds of befuddled silence staring at him: "I believe Mr. Gold went back up to your room."

"Er... right. Yes. Thank you." She tipped him with a $5, which seemed like too much, but probably wasn't enough when you figured they charged $18 here for a cup of cocoa.

X

Gold was half way through all the scotch in the minibar when Belle let herself into their room. Their damn room -- a king size bed covered in rose petals, a bottle of champagne waiting for them, a high-end selection of sensual massage oils waiting for them beside the over-large tub.

He wasn't here. Hadn't been allowed to come.

"Rum?" Belle asked gently, approaching him the way you would a rabid dog.

And that's all he was. A cur, with no manners, who hadn't even been able to keep up his end of their deal to protect her honor. It was bad enough that Belle thought he was using her so that Milah and her horrid friends would assume they'd engaged in sexual congress all weekend, but when they got home her friends were bound to ask her where she'd been. And Gold didn't want her to blush in that way she did and stammer badly through a lie for him. He didn't want Belle to look back on this situation he'd contrived and have any reason to feel ashamed.

"I'll sleep on the sofa," Rum said. "We'll fly home in the morning."

"That's not-- I mean, Rumsfeld -- Talk to me!" she begged.

"It's fine, Belle. It's fine," he sighed, echoing her mantra from earlier. "This was never going to work. Nobody was ever going to believe that someone like you -- and someone like me. It beggars the imagination."

"It's not that crazy," muttered Belle, her cheeks coloring. "I know I'm not one of those sleek women in a tight black dress with strings of pearls and diamonds the size of grapes, but I--"

"You did nothing wrong, sweetheart," Gold breathed. "Nothing at all. It was my own idiocy. She was getting married at a ski resort. Neal loves to ski. I didn't think -- I never thought she'd exclude him from the ceremony after choosing a place like this. I just wanted a chance to see him again."

"Rumsfeld, is Neal... Do you have a son?"

And just like that, the world stops. Gold lurches, leans over, and vomits into the ice bucket, all over the bottle of champagne.

X

Taking care of Rum is far less bothersome than Belle feared when she saw his state. For a man who never presented himself as anything less than pristine, it had been a shock to see him half-undressed, sweaty, and shaking. All she'd wanted in that moment was to wrap him up in the enormous duvet and tell him that everything was going to be okay.

He hadn't been completely insensate, but he hadn't been particularly lucid either. She managed to get his shoes off, persuade him to handle his own bladder / pajamas / toothbrush situation, and then started hand-feeding him room service french fries and bottle water. Whatever. He could be mad at her for the extra charge to the room in the morning.

Belle prepared a cool compress for his skin, set a pair of aspirins on the bedside table, and crawled into bed, next to Rum, about half an hour after he started gently snoring.

"It's going to be okay," she whispered. "We can figure it all out in the morning. Just please don't puke on me."

Gold laughed a little, then went back to his slow, steady breathing.

Morning arrived with a hangover and a blizzard -- the squalls of yesterday's delayed flights had matured into an unexpected storm. The skiers would be thrilled just as soon as the slopes were cleared for traffic, and all seemed content to stay snug in the lodge until they got the green light. For Rum and Belle, however, it meant there was absolutely no way they were getting a flight back to Maine tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if they were lucky. And the day after that was their original return ticket anyway, so there wasn't much point in fretting. Everyone agreed the roads would be cleared by Sunday.

When Gold finally started to look a little less like death warmed over, Belle approached him gently. "There's supposed to be a set of ladies and gentlemen's teas today. The hotel slipped an updated wedding itinerary under our door this morning -- lots more indoor activities until the slopes are safe."

"I'm not sure I can stomach the sight of Milah. Or her husband," Gold said.

"Soon-to-be-husband," Belle corrected. "And I think they deserve each other. But that's okay -- want to spend the day in bed with me?"

Gold looked like a deer in the headlights.

"No! I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that, but I meant -- I just meant -- I mean, it's warm and nice, and we have a lovely view of the mountains when the clouds lift. We could just spend the day reading. Maybe watch some old movies on the classic station." Belle had never been so embarrassed in all her life.

Blessedly, she woke up first and changed from her nightie (which wasn't remotely sexy, because nobody was supposed to see it, dammit), into a warm jumper and a leather miniskirt over a pair of boots and leggings. Minus the boots and skirts, it felt very much like sitting around in a pair of sweats. 

"You don't have to do that," Rum said. "You can have a spa day, get whatever you want from some of the boutiques in town -- if any of them are open. My treat."

"I think you've already spent more then enough on me," Belle answered a little more harshly than intended.

"Then... I suppose I owe you a story. And an apology for last night."

"Only if you're ready," she said, hoisting herself onto the vanity. The cool marble felt more comfortable than the oddly-angled, "stylish" wooden furniture -- all of which seemed to be draped in animal hides in lieu of cushions. Whatever this aesthetic was, she wasn't a fan.

To her surprise, Gold came over and stood next to her, leaning against the sink.

"I did have a son," he said. "I do have a son. Neal, but to me he was Bae. I lost him. To Milah. The custody battle... I wasn't a good husband, but I always thought I was a great dad. I couldn't believe it when the courts appointed Milah sole custody. She hadn't ever wanted a family, and she didn't want to keep it when we found out. I begged her for a chance to be a dad. For days and days, until finally she agreed, and I never loved anything more than that tiny boy. From the minute the nurse handed him to me, everything changed.

"But that's not how it sounded to the court. To hear Milah tell it, I harassed her and coerced her and bullied her into giving birth. She called it a pattern of abuse, and I lost my temper -- right in front of the judge -- and I... I guess maybe they were right to take him from me. We don't always have a very clear picture of ourselves.

"Eventually, I got a few weeks of visitation over the summers and holidays, but Bae turned twelve a couple of years back, and Milah had Killian in her life... He didn't want to see me any more. The courts made it official a little over a year ago; they take the child's preference into account at his age. It was his fourteenth birthday last week. I thought he'd be here..."

"He's not here?" Belle gaped.

"No children are allowed on the property," he lamented. "I just assumed... Well, anyway. And now we're stuck here until the storm clears. There's really no point in continuing this charade. I don't have any pride left to preserve."

"Rum, that's awful," she cried.

And it was. It really, really was. Because no matter what kind of father Rumsfeld was, no matter how he had treated his ex-wife, it couldn't be clearer in her mind that Milah had invited Rum here just to get in one last twist of the knife.

"Rum, anybody would assume that a mother would want her child at her wedding," Belle told him. "Milah is a real piece of work, and Killian is a creep."

"A creep? Belle... Belle. Tell me that scoundrel didn't try anything."

"Nothing much," she muttered. "He was drunk and misunderstood the nature of our relationship."

"The fiance thing again?"

"Er... no. The, ah, escort thing," confessed Belle. "I left him at the bar and came back up to the room early. But you already beat me to the minibar."

"We are going to that tea," snarled Gold. "And whatever other nonsense they have scheduled for the weekend. There are some things outside my control here, but I refuse to let Killian Jones or any of Milah's face-lift cronies think that you are anything less than a lady."

"Really?" Belle quizzed. "That's what you're taking away from this?"

"My ex-wife has excluded our son from her wedding, and I have it on good authority that they're planning a long honeymoon in the South Pacific. Where do you think that leaves Neal? Boarding school? Nannies?" He was building toward something, but Belle didn't know what.

"I have tried to be respectful of Bae's wishes in all this, but he's a child. He deserves to be with a parent who loves him, not fobbed off by his mother while she gallivants around with her D-list husband. We are going back to court, and win or lose, my son is going to know that he had a father who fought for him."

"Ah," said Belle, comprehension dawning. "And you don't want the Joneses showing up at the hearing, telling the judge about how you crashed their wedding with a prostitute."

Generally, steam pouring from the ears was a trope reserved for Saturday morning cartoons. It wasn't something you'd ever see in real life, but Gold came close.

"I don't want the word prostitute mentioned within a five-mile radius of you," he seethed. "Belle, you are the kindest, loveliest, cleverest.... And you're in this position because I'm a coward. I've always been a coward, because if people don't fear me then I am nothing. And nobody's afraid of the pathetic old man who follows around the young librarian like a lost puppy."

Belle's cheeks were burning.

"I refuse -- I refuse! -- to let this idiotic, fake-relationship charade taint you. So we are going to that tea, and we are going to set all those rubber-necking, misery-vultures straight on a few things."

Belle couldn't help it. She leaned across the gap and pressed a chaste kiss against his cheek. They held each other's gaze, too close -- sharing breath that grew heavy -- and then his lips brushed hers, in a moment of perfect clarity.

"Maybe... Maybe I don't want to salvage a fake relationship," she panted. "Maybe I don't care what they think. Maybe I'd rather try for the real thing."

"Belle, it's... I'm not an easy man to love, and my son -- if I get custody, he'd come to live with me. At least sometimes."

"I'm not asking you to pick one or the other," she answered. "And I'm not asking you to involve me with your child until we're both comfortable with where things stand between us. But if all this is is some drummed-up attempt at defending my honor... Then, honestly? Don't bother."

"Belle?"

"I'm not concerned with what a room full of strangers think of me. I want to know what you think."

"I don't... I.. you have to know how I..." Gold's face broke and he turned away.

"Be brave," Belle whispered. "Be brave."

"I want you," he whimpered. "I have ever since that first day in the Library."

"In that case, Rumsfeld, I have some good news for you," she cooed.

His eyes locked with hers, full of fear and longing.

Belle kissed him again, and said: "You already have me."

FIN


End file.
